Tine
by Cheecho
Summary: Aggressive rogue Hawke has trouble with personal relationships, so she just has sex. That never ends poorly, right? Post-game. Multiple pairings.


X

**One Captain, One Kitten, Two Hawkes, and a Wolf get onto a boat...**

X

Hawke fingered the long undulating edge of her dagger. The soot smeared greasily. She had been carrying this dagger for years now, despite the several superior weapons in her pack. It was a reminder and a recrimination.

It was also perfectly balanced and sat just right in her palm. She opened and closed her fingers around the dull red of the leather handle. It was still sticky. In her off-hand, the blade was light and fast. In her dominant hand, they could find the perfect angle for any situation. For example, if she held it just so, it could enter through the ribs of an unarmoured man, and if she turned it just so, the curved point would slice the heart. She could do it with her eyes closed.

Despite the bustle and yells of the crew, Hawke heard only two sounds, over and over. The first was the desperate grasping of air, in and out when Anders had finally kissed her. The wet. The hands on her clothes. The sudden silence of the people around them.

"Hawke," Isabela said. Hawke turned her head slightly to show she was listening. She could see the top of the pirate captain's tall boots through the dark pieces of hair that kept her face from full view. "You're in the way, kitten."

Hawke saw Merrill turn to the pirate, her big silly eyes and her terrible life choices. Hawke got up abruptly and moved off the steps that separated the bridge from the main deck. "Don't call me that," she snapped.

Isabela shrugged, "I meant it affectionately."

"Keep it to yourself," Hawke threw back.

Isabela watched the rogue's retreating back. "Well, fine," she said.

X

Castillon's taste left much to be desired. The captain's cabin looked like a hightown mansion – too clean, too rich, too soft – and Isabela had not had time to redecorate. She plucked at the bedding. The deep red velvet looked a lot like Hawke's bedroom. Isabela heard the whisper of the well-oiled door open. Another fool thing she'd have to remedy. Even Isabela wouldn't wake if someone opened that door while she slept. She turned to see the younger Hawke step tentatively inside.

"Hey, sweet thing," Isabela said. "What can I do for you?"

Bethany shrugged.

"How's Hawke?"

Bethany made a slight amused noise. "I know better than to try and talk to her now. Really, she just needs some space to cool off."

Isabela had only ever seen Hawke hot or Hawke asleep, but she didn't say so. She began unbuckling the many straps that kept her guards on.

"Why is one arm more heavily armoured than the other?" she asked.

Isabela smirked. "I dress for effect," she said. Bethany blushed a little and looked away.

"Isn't that ... dangerous?"

"A little effect can be very distracting."

"Your effects aren't – " Bethany broke off, her blush deepening.

Isabela laughed, a little longer than was appropriate. It had been a tough day. "Oh, sweetie, I missed you," she said.

Bethany smiled, but then her face went grim. "It feels a little wrong to be happy right now," she said.

Isabela touched the mage's shoulder, "Now is the perfect time to be happy. By all rights, we should be dead, and we're not. We're here, in a fabulous ship, living another day." Bethany's eyes sparkled ominously. "Kitten," Isabela said. "We're alive. They're not. Weeping won't help."

Bethany nodded.

"Now," she said. "You just hop up onto that big old bed and tell Auntie Isabela the dirtiest secrets of Circle life."

Bethany scrunched her nose, which did not cover the resurgence of red in her cheeks.

"Or you can just tell me some stories, and I'll make them dirty in my head."

Bethany's eyes flicked away, and Isabela could see the grief in them.

"Look," Isabela said. "I have a really excellent bottle here. We'll find Merrill and we'll all drink to the memories of your friends. I get it. Merrill will get it. We'll toast them 'til the bottle's empty. We'll send them off in style."

X

In retrospect, Isabela should have thought this through better. She was always ... restless ... after close scraps with death. While sharing a bed with two beautiful women was exactly the sort of thing she usually liked, the beautiful women were Bethany and Merrill. Annoyed with her own lack of foresight, she wondered where Fenris was. Perhaps Hawke had claimed him for the evening. Joining in would suit her. Slowly, Isabela eased herself away from the tight knot of women's bodies. Bethany was flat on her back, with Merrill spooned against and under her. Neither mage woke as the rogue slipped her guards back on and eased the perfectly-oiled hinges of her door open.

Fenris was not with Hawke. He was right outside her cabin door, leaning in the shadows. His skin was so close to the colour of the wood that she only saw the brands.

Isabela smiled at him. "Where's Hawke?"

"Is she not with you?"

Isabela shook her head. "Just the girls."

Isabela couldn't see his face, but she could tell that his mouth had twisted into a smirk by the way the brands on his chin shifted. "And you are out here?"

She smiled. "Bethany just lost everything and is on the run. Again. She's sleeping. And drunk."

He nodded curtly. "Should we find Hawke?"

"There are a lot of places on this ship that a woman like Hawke could hide."

"I will take your word for it."

"Or," Isabela said, in that tone she had that said more than whatever she said with it. She did not get a chance to finish her sentence. Fenris's hands came around her hips, lifted her into the air, and slammed her hard against the wood he'd just been leaning against. He pushed his body against hers, and she squirmed the way she knew they both liked. Her mouth opened almost as soon as his lips touched her, and Isabela wrapped her legs appreciatively around the elf. Fenris felt much as she did about close scraps with death. So did Hawke, but Hawke was probably thinking about someone else's death tonight. Which was too bad.

Fenris let her mouth go, and his hands flexed on the flesh of her hips.

"Or," Isabela said again. "I could show you one of those hiding places."

He inclined his head. She could see more of his face now that he was out of the shadow. It was tight with worry. Uncharacteristically tender, Isabela ran her fingers across his forehead and smoothed her palm down his cheek. He put her down abruptly, and her hand fell from his face. "I'll follow you," he said.

Well, fine, Isabela thought. They could just do that too. She started across the deck, knowing Fenris was behind her. Briefly, she marveled that she'd managed to find not just one, but two, people to have regular sex with who were even worse at feelings than she was. Then she found the place she had in mind, and she spent several hours marveling at other things.

X

She was not hiding, Hawke told herself, as she dropped down the ladder to the gundeck. She was just looking for a bit of solitude. The sea was calm tonight, and Isabela's crew were milling around the deck with little to do. There were two elves in the bird's nest, scanning the flat water. The gundeck out to be empty. It was. Square patches on moonlight hit the clean, straight boards of the floor, and Hawke could hear the voices of the crew above her, but not so distinctly that she could follow their conversation. Perfect. She made her way to the back of the deck and, pulling her blanket from her pack, curled herself into a great coil of rope. Her dominant hand was still wrapped around the sticky handle of her longest-carried weapon, and she cradled it to her heart, blade down.

She dreamt things she remembered.

Anders, shoving a poorly bound roll of papers into her hands. He was speaking, but she heard nothing that he said. She knew she was dreaming.

"I am still a man," he said, eyes down. His face was open in a way that she hadn't seen in years. There was a worry about his lips, and Hawke knew how that worry would harden and twist in time. "You can't keep teasing me like this," he admitted.

She raised her chin at him. "Teasing implies that I'd say no in the end." She stepped closer to the mage. He was frozen in place, chest rising and falling. Breaths audible. Hawke touched the bottom ring of his coat, too lightly for him to feel it. He closed his eyes against the sight of her hands on his clothes. She stepped so close that she could feel his breath on her hair. She wasn't touching any part of him, but she could feel the erratic, slowing beat of his heart, as if it were rushing over her hand. "I'm tempting you, Anders," she whispered.

He sat on a crate, and the room went red. His mouth was still soft, as it had often been soft in those early years, and he looked at her openly, as he hadn't for years. "I am just a man," he said.

Hawke's eyes opened. The gun deck was still dark.

X

In the morning, Hawke was standing on the deck. She looked as she always looked – slightly rumpled, but not as if she had spent a night in her clothes. Even across the deck, Isabela could see that her eyes were the same clear blue they always were. Unrimmed by red and hard in the corners. Only Fenris had the courage to cross to where she stood, carrying a heel of bread and thick slice of hard cheese. Hawke took them, but Isabela did not see either of them speak.

"Why are you wearing this?" Bethany asked, touching the tie on Isabela's upper arm.

"Hawke hands them out to her conquests."

"You're not serious," Bethany exclaimed.

Isabela turned to the girl with a raised eyebrow.

"You _and_ Fenris?"

Isabela smirked. "Sometimes at once," she said, and then she wished she hadn't. Rather than examine the feeling, she continued. "Once, I saw an extra flash of red on Cullen's wrist. He kept it under the gauntlet. Hawke didn't even invite me to that party."

Heads were turning in their direction, and Bethany dropped her voice. "Did Anders have one too?"

"Anders started it. He stopped wearing his when Fenris got one, but I don't think they stopped..."

Bethany interrupted with a groan, half-way between pity and condemnation.

Isabela said nothing.

"What happened, Isabela? Anders didn't seem so..." she waved a hand vaguely.

"He got worse. I don't think Hawke was good for him."

"He used to remind me of my father," Bethany said. After a moment she added, "My sister didn't get along with him either."

X

Hawke's eyes opened again. She was nestled between her two most frequent lovers, hoping that their attention and presence might drive the dreams away. They had not. In this dream, Carver had been egging her on. She turned from the crate to him, Tine raised threateningly. She knew that if she killed him, the Chantry would reform and the dead would be whole. She would do it. But he was suddenly gone, and she was powerless again.

"Kill me," the mage said, but it was Bethany, with her hair waving around her face. Her brown eyes. Bethany in the chain shirt she wore before she went to the Circle. "Sister," she said, from the crate of the condemned.

Enough. Bethany was on the ship somewhere. Safe. She could do nothing for Carver. Hawke sat up.

The night was warm enough that they were on top of the bedsheets. All three of them were naked, and all their weapons within easy reach. Fenris was on his back, head turned from them all. His spent cock was still sticky with the juices of both women. Isabela was on Hawke's other side, her dark nipples soft and round while she slept. Hawke did not normally sleep with women, but for Isabela she'd made an exception. When, on their first night together, Isabela had slid her whole hand inside her, Hawke had not regretted it. She had come hard, screaming and clutching the worn wood headposts of the pirate's bed. Isabela had just smirked.

Neither was touching her, and it was easy to slip off the bed, into her clothes. She took three daggers. Two on her back and Tine in her hand. Isabela had not altered the door, and it swung so silently no one heard it. The man outside the captain's door nodded once, appraisingly. She was sure he'd heard an earful earlier. He was dark-haired, tall and broad. He smelled clean.

"When do you get off?" Hawke asked, without preamble.

He grinned. He was missing one tooth, but the rest were clean and white. "Second watch," he said. "An hour."

She nodded. "Bring a friend," she said. He grinned again.

It wasn't much more than an hour later that Hawke had two men moving inside her. She was on her knees in the empty hold, leaning slightly forward. The guard she'd invited was on his back, one of her hips in his hand, grunting softly with each breath, and watching his cock disappear inside her. His friend was behind her, squeezing both her tits in his hand. She could feel them meeting inside her. She could feel their rhythms growing erratic, and she snarled. If they came first, she might kill them.

The guard caught her expression and grinned at her. She felt feral, powerful. He pushed his thumb inside her mouth. She let her teeth scrape the top and slide her tongue along its pad. He rubbed her tongue hand and threw his head back appreciatively. She bit him. He took his hand back and reached between their joined bodies, sliding it hard over her clit. The man behind her arched and moaned, and she felt him empty into her. He slipped out immediately, and ran his fingers around her suddenly wetter opening. She groaned and arched and clenched, welcoming the oblivion of her body's reactions. The guard waited for her to finish, then he pumped hard into her – once, twice, then he came himself.

The men dressed and left for their bunks. Hawke could see the sky through the openings in the deck's roof. It was minutely lighter. She thought she could sleep for a bit.

She dreamt of Anders lowering himself, fully clothed, between her legs on the new red sheets in her mansion.

When she woke, she poured half a bottle of stamina drought into her palms and smeared it over her face, especially around the eyes. It was the only benefit she'd gained from the two tedious Ladies of Hightown lunches her mother had made her attend. She drank the last half. She'd been around mages long enough to know that you don't leave potion bottles unsealed.

X

On the deck, Hawke's three friends and her sister were standing on the quarter deck. Hawke moved to join them.

Without looking at her, Fenris handed her some bread and cheese. She bit into it.

"Hawke," Merrill said, cheerfully. "Did you sleep well?"

Hawke shrugged. She was too exhausted for Merrill.

"We're just discussing our destination," Isabela said. "I was thinking Rivain."

Hawke swallowed, the bread suddenly drier in her mouth. She had no desire to make a decision ever again, but she had even less desire to let someone else do it for her.

"Why Rivain?"

The pirate shrugged. "The Chantry doesn't have a lot of clout there. These two," she gestured at Bethany and Merrill, "and you will be safer there than anywhere. Besides, I haven't been home in years. Thought I'd see if my grandmother's still alive. If she is, she always has an ear to the ground. If she's not, I'll keep my own ear to the ground." Isabela glanced nervously at Hawke, and continued, "If you don't like it there, you can come with me when I leave."

Once, Hawke had drunkenly claimed a spot for both her and Fenris amoung the crew of the then-nonexistent ship. It was as close as the two women had ever gotten to permanency. It was as close as Hawke had ever gotten to a commitment, and she resented that Isabela was bringing it up now.

"The only problem is that Cullen and the rest of the templars saw us sail off. I'm worried we'll be followed. We should double back a few times."

"I do not think Cullen will chase us," Fenris said, daring a sideways glance at Hawke.

Isabela crinkled her nose. "You got to!" Fenris gave a small twist of the lips, still looking sideways at Hawke. "Damn you, Hawke!"

"Got what?" Merrill asked. Bethany blushed and looked away.

"Fine," Isabela said, ignoring all the women who weren't the Champion of Kirkwall. "We'll make for Rivain, but I'm still going to double back. Only because you didn't invite me for the templar."

X

That night, Fenris found Hawke before Hawke was quite ready to find him and Isabela. She was sitting on a large coil of rope on the gun deck. She was holding a bottle of oil between her feet to prevent it from spilling in the ship's gentle movement. Tine was in her hand. She had cleaned the blade and was sharpening it, but the handle was still sticky with the abomination's blood.

Fenris held a bottle of wine out to her. "I find alcohol to be a better distraction than sex," he said.

She looked up at him, hidden behind the locks of dark hair. He resisted the urge to smooth them away. Madness.

"Here," he said turning the bottle slightly towards her. "Though I would not object to sharing."

"Is there more?" she asked.

He smiled and showed her his other hand, with the second bottle.

She shifted on the coil, inviting. "I'm almost done," she said.

He sat, careful to leave a little space between her thigh and his, and took a long drink from the open bottle. The rasp of the whetson echoed against the wood walls, the wood floor, and the wood roof.

"Where's Isabela?"

"Teaching your sister Wicked Grace."

"And you're not there, taking advantage?"

"I prefer a challenge," he said.

"You would," she said. She pushed her hair from her eyes with the back of her forearm so that she could peer unimpeded down the blade. She turned it over several times, rotated it forward and backward to check that the edge was even. Seemingly satisfied, she set it down and recapped her oil. She wiped her hands on a rag and rolled it all in the leather case she kept. Fenris passed her the wine, and she took a long pull. "So this is a better anesthetic, is it?"

"I have always thought so."

Fenris felt aware of the movements of her arm, the shift of her thigh so near his. He felt the hesitation in her movements, the extra twitch in her muscles. He was intimately familiar with the secrets her body told. He had watched her for years, and while she spoke openly to no one, he knew her. He knew she was not sleeping. She was not well. "And if it doesn't work?" she asked.

He smiled from the side of his mouth closest to her. "Then I am here for whatever you need."

She made a small noise of gratitude and took a deeper pull. Fenris wanted to tell her that the vintage was too good to drink so fast, but he remembered her watching him wordlessly as he threw full bottles of an even better vintage against the walls of his mansion, and he said nothing. "Tell me a story," she ordered.

"I do not know stories," he said.

"Anything will do, Fenris," she said, and her hand closed briefly over his arm before pulling back again. When she spoke again, it was in her customary brusque tone. "Just talk," she ordered.

And because she had let no one else near her since Kirkwall, he talked. He told her all the stories Varric had ever told him about Bartrand. He was sure she had heard them all, and he was sure that Varric had told them with more detail and more varied inflection, but she did not complain. After the second story, she slipped from the coiled rope to the floor. She moved her pack out of the way and pulled him down to the floor with her. He let her. He let her arrange his limbs for her best comfort. When she was done, he talked on.

The second wine bottle had been empty some time before her breathing settled. Hawke did not fall into the easy breathing of most sleepers, but it did become slightly less shallow, slightly less rushed. He permitted himself to touch her then, to smooth the hair across her face. Her hand was on his wrist, twisting and pining him under her, before he noticed that she'd moved.

"Fenris," she hissed. She pushed herself between his legs and pulled his hands onto her breasts. She let him go and started on the buckles and belts across her front. "Fenris, you promised me."

"Whatever you need, Hawke," he said, and she was on his mouth. Their hands tangled on her armour, and since she was drunker than he was, she pushed her hands into his hair and let him get on with it. For all Hawke's temper, she was a remarkable lover. She demanded and offered with equal fervour. When he finally caved to her persistent invitations, she'd had little regard for his history and his fear. Despite this seeming selfishness, she'd made very certain of his pleasure. She'd talked almost the whole time, low and close to his ear. How she liked to imagine him. How she brought herself off while she thought about him. What he was doing to her at that moment. What they were going to do next time. Who they were going to do next time. The sound of her voice had been as intimate as her body. It had left him no room for thoughts. He'd shuddered as he'd emptied, again and again, and was filled with her voice.

He was grateful. If he'd caved to anyone else, he might have lost years in angst and pussy-footing.

Finally, her top was open, and she pulled it off, thrusting her chest into his face. He took both breasts in his hands and the nearest nipple into his mouth. He sucked and licked and squeezed, and her hands made quick work of the few buckles that kept his armour on.

"Hawke," he said, and she groaned in return. He mumbled her name around her nipple and dropped his hands to her pants. They peeled off. He turned her under him and lifted her leg in the air, tugging the hem around her ankle.

She moaned encouragingly, and he said her name again. Her hands were at the top of her smalls, shoving them off her hips. He took them in hand and they followed her pants down her legs.

She arched off the floor, taking both his shoulders in her hands and pushing his face down. "Fenris," she said. "Now."

Despite all this moaning, he found her dry. He used his fingers to close her lips over, and he took the whole of her sex, outer labia and all, into his mouth briefly, before kissing it. She shifted appreciatively under him. "Are you comfortable?" he asked her.

In answer, she shifted so that her back was flat and straight on the floor, not pressed and curved against the ropes. He began slowly, pulling each lip inside his mouth. He kept his thumb near her opening, but it wasn't until he slowed to near immobility, licking each inch and pulling gently with his lips that he felt her start to respond. She moistened, and when he laid a hand onto her belly, her breath deepened to meet it. She was, uncharacteristically, quiet.

He did not increase his pace, and he was not rough. He swirled his tongue and twisted his long fingers inside her. He moved in a variety of patterns, until he began to notice a hitch in the rhythm of her breathes. He felt it in his hand, which was still pressed to the soft skin of her belly. He kept the same circle over her clit, the same pressure and the same rhythm, and her muscles softened around him, rather than tensing and thrashing, as he was used to. Her hips fells more widely open, and when she finally came, she breathed out and flooded out over his hand and mouth.

"Fenris," she said, in a muddled, thick-tongued tone. "Good."

He kissed each strong thigh and moved up her body to take her in his arms. There was only a small, rare window in which Hawke let herself be held. She had removed his breastplate and his belt, but he was still dressed in tunic and leggings. She pulled at them.

"Want to," she said. "Off."

"Hawke," he said. "I here for whatever you want, but I would sooner see you sleep."

Her muscles were reawakening, taking the softness from her limbs. Fenris let her go immediately and backed off her.

"Let me take you back to the cabin," he said.

"I sleep here," she said, sternly.

He glanced at the coil of rope. "No," he said. "Come."

He helped her get enough her clothes on that she could walk over the deck without catcalls. She let him take her pack, her sharpening kit, and her weapons, but she clutched her armour to her. She was quite drunk, and he had to brace either side of her hips as she climbed the ladder. Once they were on the deck, he put his hand at the small of her back, guiding her and ready to catch her if she should fall. He pushed her towards Isabela's cabin and swung the door open. Isabela was at her table, one booted thigh slung over the ornate arm of her chair. Merrill was sitting at the very edge of her seat, and Bethany sat primly in the exact center of hers. Cards and matches were spread over the table, and all faces turned towards them. Isabela's eye on his hand, still on Hawke's back. If Fenris had been carrying her in his arms, Isabela could not have looked more incredulous.

"That might be it for the night, ladies. Thank you both."

Hawke did not look at anyone but climbed, exhaustedly, onto the mattress. Fenris fished the thinnest of the sheets from the many layers and draped it over her.

He heard the women saying their goodnights.

Isabela did close the door behind them. "She okay?"

"She's drunk. And sleeping," Fenris said.

"Hmm," Isabela said. "You joining her?"

"I thought I might."

She passed a fond hand over his arm. "I'm not quite ready to turn in. See you later?"

"Indeed."

Isabela was gone. Fenris hung his armour and hers on the racks against the door. He sat for a time at the table, cleaning the handle of Hawke's blade. Already the leather was stained, and if she left it longer, it would be ruined. The blood came off in small brown flecks, which Fenris swept off the table into his hand. He opened the cabin door and let what was left blow away into the Waking Sea. He could not feel much regret. Back in the cabin, he replaced the blade in Hawke's pack and stripped himself of the leathers Hawke had never taken off him. He eased himself under the sheet. Hawke was curled on her side, facing the wall of the cabin. As a rule, she did not permit herself to be touched while she slept. Fenris lay carefully behind her, stretching his longer body along the curve of her back. There were several inches between them, and enough room for Isabela on his other side. Isabela did not object to being touched while she slept, and Fenris knew that she would tuck herself into him. Carefully, he breached the buffering inches with one finger. It touched the fabric of Hawke's clothes, but not Hawke herself. He closed his eyes.

X

Hawke woke again in the night. Isabela's cabin was dark, and she could hear the mingled breaths of her lovers behind her. She shifted carefully in the narrow space allotted to her. She thought of getting up, but she was tired to her bone, and it was pleasant to lie like this, insensate bodies near her. She reached her dominant hand out and pressed it against the varnished wood paneling, felt the tension in the tendons of the wrist. She would only think of Anders like this, in the dark, where no one could see her.

X

_a/n: Yes, Fenris has idolized Hawke. With his history, I think that would be a very real possibility, especially if Hawke isn't a mage and __doesn't moon over him. And Bethany and Isabela have fallen into Leandra's misconception that everything is Hawke's fault. So has Hawke._


End file.
